


the sky may be falling (and so am I)

by captainkilly



Category: Iron Fist (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 04:54:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11246733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: Ward Meachum is nothing like his father.One day, he might almost believe it.





	the sky may be falling (and so am I)

He's screwed. So. Absolutely.  _Fucked_.

The city doesn't help. Never has, if he's being really honest with himself. He surrounds himself with metal and glass and pretends the world isn't collapsing around him. Sips another scotch until he runs out of liquid luck.

It's this fucking office.

This goddamn _legacy_.

He's tearing the company apart brick by brick. Department by department. Uprooting it until all the poisoned roots show. He never knew there were so many. Everyone's got a weakness. Everyone's got leverage. Everyone can be bought. He knew this intellectually, of course. One doesn't survive Rand Enterprises for years without knowing some of the pressure points that make people tick.

Hell, one doesn't survive his father for years without knowing about the things that can break a man.

Ward Meachum sits on the floor of his office and watches the sky burn a fiery sunset all around him. Sees the reflecting glass walls of humanity's skyscraping empire turn deepest red and gold. Observes the gleam of last light streak over his bare feet, his jeans, and his calloused hands. It's the only time he doesn't mind the city. The only time it feels anything like something he could love. He doesn't love with ease. Doesn't love with kindness or an open mind. Kindness gets you hurt. Open minds are too easily influenced. This much he knows, even when he hates himself so much for this that he thinks he might yet choke on the ashen taste it leaves in his mouth. He's forgotten who he was before life taught him who he should be. He knows that much, too.

He leans back against his desk drawers. Sets the empty tumbler down on the floor. Lets his fingers linger on the edges of the glass for just a second before withdrawing and folding both his hands in his lap. He clenches his fingers around his own bones until he thinks they're close to breaking. Digs his nails into his skin until he leaves small half moons scattered across its surface. Smacks his head against the top drawer once, twice, thrice in a staccato rhythm that's entirely too much like Harold's punches used to be. Huffs out a breath at the memory of hard fists hitting all the soft spaces on his body. Another breath. Another punch. Another breath. Another pain. Another breath. He's too weak, so weak, too fucking _damaged_. He hunches in on himself until he remembers he's alive and Harold is not. Stretches his legs again shortly after his breath goes back to normal.

The damage doesn't go away.

He watches the sun streak past his feet one more time until darkness catches up with its last gleaming. He's stayed at the office far too long again. He knows he's the only one left in the building aside from a new security detail on the ground floor. He's _got_ to stop making a habit of this, but his feet won't move toward the door and he doesn't remember what going home feels like anymore. He can't go to his apartment and pretend that he didn't tear the place upside down and inside out on the hunt for all the surveillance crap Harold had hoisted upon him without his knowledge. Twenty-three microphones, two wiretaps, and forty-three cameras later and the apartment stopped feeling like anything he could trust. He'd had half a mind to gather Harold's ashes, glue them back together somehow, wait for the man to come back to life, then stab him all over again. Instead, he'd spent the night getting yelled at by Danny over the cuts he'd somehow managed to give himself between the shattered window and the destroyed shower.

Danny's another problem. Not in the sense of hello-I-am-back-from-the-dead-and-here-to-take-all-your-money, although that was a legitimate concern at first. No. Danny's a problem that follows Ward around like a lost puppy that hasn't been kicked enough times to know it shouldn't follow in his footsteps. Danny's the new fist on his ribs that's very not-Harold but still very far from okay. Case in point: the phone call he'd received about an hour ago. Ward's still not sure how one _exactly_ manages to lose an entire monastery. He's even less sure how one manages to lose an entire group of yellow-robed monks. Still, according to Colleen, that's exactly what happened. Danny had been too distraught to even come on the phone, which Ward thought was half a blessing and half eyeroll-worthy stupidity.

He knows Danny didn't make K'un-Lun up. The boy had always been a little more prone to flights of fancy than the Meachum children, sure, but even Danny couldn't come up with a harebrained story about an Immortal Iron Fist and a dragon without messing it up in retelling a few times. The fact that Danny's story had never once wavered lent credibility to it. Credibility that Ward isn't sure he ever wanted to kumbaya itself into his life the way it so clearly has. Having his father come back from the dead was already all the supernatural bullshit he never asked for but received anyway.

He groans out loud and closes his eyes. Dimly, in the back of his head, the voice he mentally refers to as 'never grew beyond age five, treat with caution' is chanting an incessant "Danny wasn't worthy" at the most obnoxious sing-song melody it can muster. Older, ten-year-old jaded voice joins its chorus moments later with an "and neither are _you_ " that's a little too loud in his skull. He smacks his head against the drawer again in the staccato pace that's got all the dedication of the fifteen-year-old suicide risk finding a coping pattern that doesn't lead toward the inevitable. The glass shatters when he reaches out and clenches his fist around it with all the fury of his twenties. He doesn't even blink at the ache of two shards driving their way into his skin. Just watches, mesmerised, as his blood coats the clear glass like the rolling tide that threatens to consume his sanity.

Morning can't come fast enough.

*****

The wish for a fast morning is something he ends up regretting when it's half past nine and his first appointment of the day is a fucking half an hour early. Who does that? A cast of desperate people featuring old school buddy Henry Jackson, that's who, and Ward is _so_ not in the mood for another one of those golfing stories that really wind up being about the too-blonde women that've always magically inserted themselves into Jackson's bed. So, he ignores the fact that he's keeping people waiting. Makes up his mind to keep them waiting for at least ten minutes past the original time, too.

His secretary has already cottoned on to that plan, of course, as he knew she would. She'd breezed into his office moments ago with a "they are early, I'm going to stall, wish I'd worn higher heels so I could stare that motherfucker of a Jackson down, please change out of that shirt you're wearing right now for your meeting" fired off in rapid succession. Wryly asked him seconds later how vapid she'd have to pretend to be this time -- he'd smirked back and advised a "think Mean Girls dialled up to cannot-find-my-own-socks-when-they-are-on-my-feet levels" that had her snorting out a curse and prayer under her breath. (No use denying having seen that movie when Joy can recite all the lines in her sleep.) He's never been more grateful to have shovelled Megan off into Danny's general secretarial direction. The new girl's ten times more vicious and twice as clever, which doesn't bode well for unsuspecting clients but is something he can live with when she interjects her running commentary on the goings-on at Rand Enterprises with all the social gossip nobody ever tells him about.

Joy, in her only reappearance at the company since the fiasco with dad he doesn't even want to think about, had not taken to the new girl half as well. She'd felt the secretary too young, too overly familiar, too independent, and _far_ too shark-like for a job designed around social niceties and several feet of daily paperwork. He'd blinked at his sister. Ground out a clipped "I like her just fine" and that was that. He knows what the rest of the board thinks. CEO's finally lost the damn plot and hired himself some fresh eye-candy. He knows they're waiting on a scandal of some kind. Waiting for a reason to throw him out on his ass now that he's reforming the company and coming for their jobs. He doesn't have the heart to tell them they'll be waiting for a long time.

"That shirt isn't ironed," interrupts her voice with all the patience of a long-suffering overworked secretary. Just as he was about to reach for his favourite shirt, too. Just his damn luck. "Grab the one next to it. More or less wrinkle-proof -- if it isn't, you're gonna get your money back because the guy in the shop assured me that ironing would be a thing of the past with that one." Her voice takes on a vaguely chipper tone he recognises all too well as her customer service voice dialled up to saccharine. "Roll the sleeves up with that one. I can't save you from your jeans, but I can save you from looking too business up top and too casual down there."

"Yes mom," he shoots back at her. She snorts out an "eight years your junior, boss" in reply that makes him feel almost tragically old. He rolls his eyes as he reaches for the shirt she indicated. "Go," he tells her. "Stall Jackson within an inch of his life. Overload him on the crap coffee they serve two floors down." He smiles rather viciously. "Please tell me you didn't finish the paperwork for the meeting yet."

"Already did that," she says. He catches her shrug in the mirror. "Jackson and the rest of them fratboys don't know that, though. Also, boss, Jeannie from Accounting is driving me up the fucking wall saying she needs your signatures on the paperwork like yesterday."

"You dropped that on my desk before you went out for the night yesterday." He frowns back at her, puzzled. "When exactly did she expect me to get round to it?"

"Last night. She's one of the conspiracy theorists, remember? According to her, I left at eight and then came back through the locked back entrance to spend time with you off the record. Or so Mara from Legal told me in a stage whisper once she'd cottoned on to the fact that you and I really aren't anything other than really nice boss and totally obnoxious secretary." He lets out an incredulous laugh at that. Makes a mental note to never entrust Jeannie with the account of Hogarth's firm. She, on her part, has paused briefly. He catches her contemplative glance in the mirror. Raises an eyebrow at her. "Do you think I need to play up my natural abilities to distract those guys during the coffee round?" she asks seconds later. "Fix my hair and stuff before I go into that meeting room?"

"What good is _that_ going to do?"

"Oh come on." She fixes him with a stare. "You're not a totally blind saint just because you're shit at recognising flirtations and don't react to pretty people with my level of thirst."

"Fine, Brooke. Go. Look pretty." He waves her off impatiently. "Don't freak Frank from Legal out too much, though, okay? I need him coherent."

"Got it, boss."

He shakes his head when the door clicks shut behind her. Joy may have been right about the shark-like thing after all. He can't say he regrets hiring that. HR had sent about ten girls his way. The first five had burst into tears the second he made a snide remark. The two next had completely rested on pretty, which he vaguely acknowledged in the way others acknowledge a nice painting. The two after that had finally shown some promise until faced with the demands of a CEO who'd run out of fucks to give and had gotten hellbent on messing with his own company. He'd just about given up and was already mentally rehearsing a rant at HR when in she walked. Last of the bunch, but somehow the most assured and mouthy of the lot. Experienced in the way all millennials were (half a dozen part-time jobs that included shouting down angry customers in retail) and totally _not_ impressed with anything but his ability to make even the simplest sentence sound hopelessly sarcastic. She had initially pretended to rest on pretty, like all the rest of them, but he'd seen right through that the second she began nitpicking at the wording in one of the documents he'd handed to her.

On her part, she'd seen right through him. This had brought her into Danny's good graces the second he admitted to the younger man that he'd caved and hired someone who'd called him an asshole outright but had turned to snap back a rapidfire defense of him to one of the men who'd called him the same. He'd finally given up on keeping her out of his business when she'd murmured a quiet "must feel like you can breathe on your own for the first time again" after picking up his reduced fast-track-to-outright-withdrawal medication on one of her errands. (Ward hates admitting it, but he's not above designing an obstacle course that keeps people out and trips them up until they're flat on their ass. She's the first in a long time to simply look at the obstacle, shrug, and circumvent it rather than confront it.)

He tries to clamp down on his urge to dry-swallow one of the pills right now when the more unforgiving mirror catches sight of the small cluster of scars above his waistband. Grips the shirt he just took off in his hands so tightly that it creases and folds around his fingers. Not for the first time, he's glad that he made her remove all the sharp objects in his vicinity.

The absence of his dad's torment cuts like a thousand blades.

*****

"I can _not_ believe I let the two of you talk me into this."

He's wedged uncomfortably on the driver's seat of the most rickety old car he's ever had the displeasure of driving in. (He's still not convinced it won't just drop out from under him and fall apart at the worst possible time, but that's not his main concern at present.) Brooke's pressed against him, having partially moved out of the backseat with the complaint that she can't see worth shit. Danny, on his part, is leaning against her and pulling up information on his phone that may or may not be relevant. They seem infinitely more happy to be here than he is. His fingers drum a nervous pace on the steering wheel. He really, really doesn't know what he's doing here.

"You mean you never go with Danny on midnight stakeouts?" asks Brooke. "You're missing out on the donuts."

"Yes, whatever will my life be if I don't have donuts?" He's aware his words sound like an eyeroll and a scoff at once, but he's not about to admit that he really does like the ones that have lots of sprinkles on top. "I have better things to do with my nights than stake out the competition, you know."

Danny raises his head from its glued-to-screen position long enough to throw him an exasperated look. "We're staking out the Hand. Not Midland Circle."

"That makes everything _so_ much better, Danny, _thank you_."

"They're freakin' suspicious. Midland Circle, I mean. Not the Hand." Brooke's been arguing this back and forth with Danny ever since he got back from kumbayaing halfway across the globe. It makes Ward's head hurt. "I don't know enough about the Hand. That's your thing. But I know fishy companies like the back of my hand -- thank you, tax-evading monster of an ex-boss -- and I'm telling you: they're up to their necks in this weird shit."

"Their takeover of several building sites isn't suspicious," argues Danny.

Ward raises his eyebrow at this. "Yes, it is." He lets out a long-suffering sigh at Danny's look of confusion. "Remind me to force you into some business classes when you're done ninjaing through town. If I thought Midland Circle was just a cover for the Hand, I wouldn't even be sitting in this car. I'm still regretting that decision, by the way."

Brooke mouths a "bad donut" at Danny that has the curly-haired fighter snort out an appreciative laugh. Ward rolls his eyes. Stage-whispers a "real mature of you" at Brooke before leaning over and prying Danny's phone out of his hands. Scrolls through the photos of documents that he's almost certain are Hogarth's doing. He doesn't even know what he's looking for. Hell, he's gone over these about ten times already and it all still looks like solid paperwork that doesn't give anything away. He's too fucking paranoid, that's what. Maybe Midland Circle really is just acting in everyone's best interest by buying up land and properties all over the state. Maybe their connection with the Hand is less shady than Danny seems to think. Gods be good, he could do with less shady. He could do with a break.

He rolls his head around until his neck makes a satisfying cracking sound. It's this damn city it's happening in, which means he's not going to get a break any time soon. This city is too broken. His distrust of it is seeping through the cracks of its thin veneer, attempting to expose the shadows that lurk underneath. The fact that dad wouldn't want him to is the only reason why he's in this car at all.

He lives his life this way just to spite his father.

Danny doesn't have any such issues. "I'm going to take a closer look," says the biggest pain in Ward's ass when there's movement outside the gate of the office block they're watching. Ward groans out loud when Danny's fasttracking out of the car and shutting the door before he can get a word in edgewise. This is just great. Absolutely _fantastic_.

He's out of the car as well before he knows good and well what he's doing. Brooke tumbles out after him, hissing about this not being the best idea. He knows that much. He also knows Danny's very likely to get himself killed or worse and he really, really does not want to run Rand by himself. He hates the goddamn company too much for that. It doesn't stop his inner monologue from cursing Danny in at least twenty different ways and lamenting the existence of the Immortal Iron Fist in three different languages while he's at it. He keeps telling himself it's self-preservation to drag Danny back to safety.

It doesn't occur to him that it might also be a preferable way for him to commit suicide until the street he stands on catches fire.

*****

He's so done with superheroes. So. Fucking. _Done._

"Note to self: do not wear flammable clothing next time." That's Brooke, peeling off the remnants of her shirt in the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Her voice grows steadily louder now that her hisses of pain are evaporating in soft gasps between her teeth. "Hey, boss, can I chalk this up to a job hazard?"

"Danny's the fucking job hazard," agrees Ward readily. Winces as his hand brushes past the ugly burn on his left arm. Knows it's going to scar no matter what Claire Temple has done to salvage it. "Sorry about that. Shouldn't have brought you along."

"You're kidding, right? This is the best night out I've had since that time I got into a bar fight with someone in a polar bear costume." She sounds a little too chipper for comfort, though, and he makes a mental note to have her take some time off next week. Brooke raises her voice even more so it reaches Claire in the living room. "How's Danny doing?"

"Resting. Healing up." Claire's voice is calmer than Brooke's. Calmer than Ward has ever felt in his life, even. "That was a close call you guys had."

A close call does not begin to describe the growing sense of impending doom that's coiled in the pit of his stomach and threatening to start shouting "I told you so!" at any second now. Claire's been too occupied with a severely injured Danny to notice what exactly has been going on. Brooke's been too focused on the little she saw of Midland Circle before dragging Danny out of there became the top priority. And he's not sure, but he thinks even a conscious Danny wouldn't put two and two together. Danny wouldn't know enough about the way this city works to be able to make sense of what they saw.

He's not entirely certain that it makes full sense to him, either, but he knows alien weaponry and superhuman serums when he sees them. (The very fact that he was able to recognise that much out of the brief glimpses he got before he almost got sliced in half by a sword worries him more than he can say.) He knows now that there's trouble brewing in every square inch of the city that Midland Circle's purchased since the alien invasion. Makes a mental note to cross-reference current maps of the city with places that were overrun by the Chitauri once he's back at the office. He's probably not going to like what he finds. Makes another series of mental notes about researching combat enhancers, Luke Cage, and Rand's own chemicals that he knows for sure is going to put him on half a dozen kill lists before the month is up.

The fun thing about living with a death wish is that he's supremely unconcerned with anything his enemies might do to him. Except being set on fire, because that's just too damn inconvenient.

This was his best suit, goddamnit.

"Claire?" He hates that his voice comes out sounding smaller than it should. Scrapes his throat. Tries again, louder this time. "Claire?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you come check Brooke over once you're done? And stay with Danny until I get back?"

"Get back from where?"

He hesitates. Shakes his head. "Best you don't know," he affirms. "There's some food in the fridge and money on the table next to the door if you get hungry." It's the least he's got to offer in an apartment that increasingly feels like it belongs to a stranger. "I won't be out for more than a couple of hours. Need to check some things."

Claire's easy acquiescence has the air of someone who knows all too well that he's embarking on a warpath.

*****

"What. Did. You. _Do?_ " Hogarth's voice is clipped in breathless fury. "Are you trying to get yourself killed? Did you even think at all? No, wait, hold on: you never think. Never!"

"Congratulations, you've figured out my brilliant plan," he drawls into the phone's transmitter. "I gave it plenty of thought. However am I going to die best? Alone in my bed after a long life with the danger of getting buried in the same ugly three-piece suits I lived in, or while I'm still young and beautiful?"

"That last part's a matter of opinion."

"Believe me, I'm glad your opinion differs."

There's an audible sigh on the other end of the line. "Ward," she finally says. Pauses after it, as though she's thinking about what to say next. "The Inner Circle isn't happy. They're sending in the sharks."

"Good. As long as Midland Circle thinks there's blood in the water and Rand's the injured party that's crippled by poor leadership from its CEO, the path is clear for Danny to do what he needs to do. When he destroys the Hand, we can restore Rand properly. I don't care how long that'll take."

"Did you ever consider there may not be a company to restore if you continue down this road?"

"Nothing would give me greater joy." It's nothing more than a mutter, but Hogarth catches it anyway. He hears her sharp exhale in his ear. "Don't start," he warns her. "Remember what I told you when my dad died?"

"You are not your father," she repeats softly. Knowingly. "Very well then."

The phoneline shuts with a gentle click. He pauses, briefly, hand and phone still raised to his ear, before lowering the phone back onto his desk. His fingers curl reflexively around the note that simply bears a handprint and nothing else. He doesn't think he has ever laughed this hard at a death threat before. He's aware that Danny thinks he's gone off the damn rails, especially when he'd sobered up only to start sniggering with laughter again at the worried look on Danny's face. He doesn't care. He's not Harold, hiding away in an apartment and cowering before silent threats. He's _not_ his father, forcing others to lie for him and do his bidding or else. He's not that kind of man. He doesn't _want_ to be that kind of man.

So, he looks at the Hand's threat and laughs until his throat hurts and his eyes sting with tears. He tries to streamline Danny's harebrained attempts to make sense of their enemy into a working pattern. He wakes up every day with a multinational high-profit company under his wing and vows to do better tomorrow when the day is done. He will not bend under the strain of their weight. He won't shatter at the pressure now that he's three-quarters on the way to fully sober and coming out on the side of furious that's beating a relentless pace in his chest. His hand clenches the note into his fist. His jaw tightens.

Let them come.

Let all of them come.

*****

"This is the worst idea I've had in _years_."

Trish Walker sounds just about as freaked out as Ward feels. His heart is threatening to hammer its way out of his throat. His palms are clammy with sweat and he's long given up on slicking his hair back again. She's not doing a whole lot better. Her eyes are wilder than he ever remembers them being, and she's fumbling with the flashlight in a way that makes its beam weave erratic circles on the walls. Her breath comes out in short huffs. His is slightly calmer, though not by much, and he steadies the flashlight's beam with one hand over her own moments later.

"I'd say the same, but my life's been a string of increasingly bad ideas for the past few years now," he mentions conversationally. "This one may not be the worst."

She shoots him a look. "You're buying me dinner if we get out of here. I need to hear those stories."

"Ever the journalist, huh?" He rolls his eyes. " _When_ we get out of here, I'll buy you dinner and all the drinks your lightweight self can manage."

"Deal."

He thinks her devil-may-care smile might just be his favourite thing about this particular friend. (His least favourite thing may be how often she kicks his ass when she's trying to teach him how to fight, but he has a feeling she already knows that.) Trish has always been a handful of trouble, but the kind of trouble she attracts seems to have grown exponentially since he last talked to her. Case in point: the completely insane rescue mission they've embarked on now. Technically, they didn't arrive here together. He'd jumped just about a foot or twenty into the air when her very confused voice asked "what're you doing?" behind his back and added a "what are you doing _here_?" moments later. He'd echoed that sentiment back at her once his heart had stopped thudding out of his chest.

Danny had been in the middle of a phone conversation with Ward when he'd dropped out so abruptly that something had to be wrong. Trish, on her part, hadn't heard from her adoptive sister Jessica at the time said sister was meant to check in. Apparently, Danny isn't the only superhero willing to get his hands on Midland Circle. And apparently, Ward's not the only reluctant human getting dragged into this mess if the third party embarking with them on their reluctant adventure is anything to go by.

"How do you two even know each other?" asks Foggy Nelson, one of Jeri Hogarth's brighter ideas and one-time friend of Daredevil. He'd arrived about two minutes ago, sounding terribly out breath and totally done with life. Ward could relate.

"We fake-dated," says Trish patiently, flipping her hair back over her shoulder with all the casual ease of a woman trying to calm the worst of her nerves. "I'm a little more into girls than I am into guys, which my mother never really could find the courage to agree with, and Ward here just doesn't like anybody that way much but had to be seen attempting to progress the family line." She shoots Ward a smile that he can barely make out in the half-dark of the corridor they're standing in. "We became friends along the way, didn't we?"

"Our mutual hatred of our lives was a bonding experience," he agrees. "Plus, you make excellent coffee."

"I could do with coffee." Foggy's voice is wistful. "I should have stayed in my office. I have a great espresso machine."

"Careful. Ward's going to come over and drink your lifetime supply," jokes Trish half-heartedly as she edges closer to the door at the end of the corridor. She hesitates. Points the flashlight beam down to the floor seconds later. "Are we sure we should be doing this?"

"Sure, no. Convinced, hell no. Scared out of my mind, yes." Ward decides he likes Foggy's matter-of-fact approach to life. The lawyer shrugs. "Still, these are our friends.."

"No. Danny's the majority shareholder in my company. If he dies, I'm going to have to fill out at least two hundred forms. Easier to rescue him."

Trish shrugs as well. "She's my sister." That really requires no further explanation. He'd do the same for Joy. She wouldn't deserve it, not anymore, but he'd still do it. He's that level of crazy. So, apparently, is Trish.

Foggy seems to have cottoned on to their resolve because his cheery "go team" sounds a little less brittle and a lot more determined than Ward had anticipated.

He doesn't fully realise what kind of hopscotch strange team they make until they're through the door and facing at least half a dozen security guards. There is a moment of utter confusion as the guards take in the gleeful blonde grabbing hold of the flashlight string and swinging it back and forth lazily, the lawyer raising his fists in front of his face and squeezing his eyes shut briefly, and Ward's immaculate suit that's marred only by the appearance of the cane he took from his father's study. (He knows the cane hurts. Looks like wood, feels like steel. Not good on the ribs.) The confusion over their appearance dies down faster than he'd like.

Ninjas don't do guns, apparently, and Midland Circle seems to be shakily leftwing progressive on that front as well if their guards' gunless attires are anything to go by. He smiles, then, and his father's cane flashes forth as quick as lightning. One. Two. The first guard goes down with a sickening crunch. Trish is occupying herself with two and three with a fighter's relish he recognises all too well. Foggy's sidled up to number four so insidiously that the man doesn't even notice Foggy's fist curling into his chest until he goes down.

They make their way through the hallway painstakingly. There's too much noise up ahead around the corner to be coincidental. If the angry shouts are anything to go by, that's roughly where he's going to find Danny. He grips his father's cane tighter and snaps it out at number five without warning. He's pretty sure he's taken the woman's eye out. Drops her onto the floor unceremoniously half a second later, wincing as her screech of pain reaches his ears. He knows this is going to haunt him when it's all over. Forces the thought back down in his mind. There's no space for second-guessing in a fight.

He almost wishes there was when he rounds the corner and sees anarchy.

Danny's golden curls are a halo mirrored by the light that shines forth from underneath his skin. He is flanked by a tall, dark-skinned man who lifts other fighters off the floor and tosses them away from Danny as though it costs no effort at all. There are far, far more fighters present here. He knows he's looking at one of the Hand's many forces when they just keep on flowing into the corridor. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Trish smack two of them in the face with her flashlight in an attempt to get to the dark-haired woman slightly ahead of them.

There is another dark-haired woman in the corridor and she has just punched freakin' Daredevil through one of the surrounding glass walls. Foggy comes to a screeching halt at Ward's side. The lawyer's lips form a word that may be a curse, a blessing, or a name. Perhaps all three. Ward recoils from her instinctively. There is something of his father in the air here. Old. Threatening. Only kind at the surface until the viper lashes out of the nest.

He almost reconsiders fighting.

His feet drag him forward of their own accord. He makes his own choices.

His fingers curl around his cane.

He weaves and dodges in and out of the melee, fighting the urge to run as the woman's eyes lock onto his. He's almost sure she smiles. Says something to him in a language he does not speak.

He hears Danny's shout of fear.

He raises his cane. Sweeps it toward the woman in a steady arch. The strike he lands on her is so hard his teeth chatter in his jaws from the reverberating shock of it.

Still, she smiles. Unperturbed.

The woman reaches out. Is close enough to touch him, now. Her fingers are an icy needleprick in his skin. His breath halts in his lungs. He fights back the terror that threatens to overtake him. The woman's hands flash once. Twice. Pain explodes in his mind. Cold, relentless, ruthless fear blossoms between his shoulderblades moments after.

He will not live through this.

He struggles.

Wants to breathe for the first time since his dad stopped breathing.

Wants to see tomorrow for the first time in years.

_Stay awake._

_Stay awake._

_Stay--_

The world goes black.

*****

He sits on the floor of his office and watches the sun rise. He's in a world of pain. Refuses to go back to the pills even though Claire said she'd monitor him closely. He doesn't trust himself like that just yet. His hand trembles as he reaches for his tumbler. Watches the golden liquid slosh around in the glass before knocking in back in one go. He sets it back down on the floor so hard he thinks the glass might just have cracked from the strain. Rolls his head back and forth and side-to-side gently, grimacing as a sharp stabbing pain shoots through his right shoulder. It hurts to breathe. Hurts to even sit here, although he hasn't moved since the sun's first light streaked across his bare toes.

He'd gotten lucky, Claire said. A few inches higher and the final blow the Black Sky landed on him would've struck his heart. (He refuses to think of that woman by the name Daredevil had forlornly whispered into the quiet. It's easier when he doesn't pay attention to all the things other people lose in the fire and the rain.) All he knows is that he shouldn't have lived to see this sunrise. He shouldn't be here to pay witness to the gold and pink that streak into the room stubbornly and replace the shadows of his mind with something brighter. The fact that he still draws breath today disquiets him.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

He looks up to find Brooke staring down at him with a tentative expression on her face. She, like he, is barefoot and dressed more casually than Rand Enterprises likes to see in its employees. He doesn't care about proper when she may have just helped save the day. He remembers her driving erratically through New York's streets, getting him and an increasingly pale-looking Trish to Claire's central location. He recalls her reaching over to squeeze his hand and talking to a sour-faced Jessica at the same time. He doesn't remember what was said. He just knows she was present during the fallout that levelled Midland Circle's offices to the ground and made the sky _bleed_.

He marvels at how there's no trace of blood in today's sunrise.

"I'm not sure how to go into that boardroom tomorrow," he finally confesses. Sighs. Rakes his hand through his hair. "How do I explain our acquisition of almost all of Midland Circle's assets?"

"With graphs and pie charts?"

Brooke slides down to the floor until she's seated next to him. Her shoulder gently bumps into his own. He lets out an appreciative snort of laughter at how simple she makes it all sound. "Sure," he comments, "let's make a pie chart showcasing all the Chitauri-influenced weaponry we've assimilated. Let's make a graph that shows all the construction sites in New York, including the ones that have a massive hole in the ground, and try to explain why we're holding on to those when they don't give us any profit." He shakes his head. "The board's going to be so pleased."

"You know how you were angling for a way to eradicate the current board without anyone accusing you of being Hitler 2.0?"

"Yeah?"

"Think I've found something. The mother of all loopholes staring you in the face on page 32 of the contract they signed with Rand, under the header 'conflict of interest'."

The piece of paper she hands him is small. Her hair tickles his bare arm as she leans over to explain the hasty scrawl with which she wrote down what may be his salvation. Lays it out for him in a way that pulls in every square inch of the company gossip she's amassed over the course of time. Her fingers smooth over the paper nervously at first but withdraw into animated gestures before long. He stares down at her looping, cursive scrawl with something he thinks is close to pride. Dimly wonders in the back of his head if that's the feeling dad had for Joy. Resolves then and there to raise this woman in-company. The thought of it is so liberating that he gasps out a breath. It's the way out. His way out.

"What just happened?" The sideways glance she throws at him is mixed with confusion. "What I came up with wasn't that good."

"What you came up with was more than five people in Legal have been able to tell me about my options. Think they're too scared I'm coming for their jobs next." His voice is wry but softens considerably to a near-murmur as he continues speaking. "I was just thinking.. you can do more than just be my secretary. Move higher up in the company."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Then who's going to stall a meeting with people you despise? Danny's not nearly as good at distracting people, you know that." Her tone is matter-of-fact. It's the tone he always uses when he wants to close out an argument. Of course she'd know how to wield it against him. "Boss, I appreciate what you're saying. Really, I do," she adds when he raises his brow at her in turn. "I just think that we need to ride out the entirety of this Midland Circle fiasco first before you start thinking about shipping me off into an unsuspecting department that won't know what's hit it."

"Fair enough."

"And I still want to work with you." The words come out in a quiet mumble, but she's seated so close to him that he hears her perfectly. "You're my favourite boss."

He scoffs at that. "Remind me what my boss competition consists of, again? A money-launderer, a tax evader, a creep, a power-hungry asinine monster, a bored old lady, and the one whose hair dye may have bleached all intelligence from her skull? I feel _so_ great about coming out on top of that list, really."

"Okay, I know something better. You're my favourite person in a three-piece suit."

"Just stop talking," he gripes at her. Gently bumps his arm against hers in turn. "Can you make me those graphs for tomorrow's meeting? I'll give you some of the data."

"Nope. Never learned how to make alien-proof pie charts or charts concerning immortal weapons back in school." She smiles mischievously. "Nothing I can't google, though. Give me half an hour to figure out how to translate that crap into Excel."

"You get two hours, overambitious millennial," he shoots back at her.

"In that case, I'm going to sit here for a little while longer. Keep this old man here company." She hums contently and reaches over to pat his knee. "You did good this week. You're doing good in the world."

He almost lets himself believe it.


End file.
